Things That Were, Things That Are
by Black-fire Phoenix Wings
Summary: John and Mrs. Hudson are visiting Sherlock's grave. Sherlock says he just wants to make sure they don't suspect anything. Molly doesn't believe that for a second.


The weather was that of a transition. The wetness of spring still lingered while the warmth of summer was beginning to appear. It was an in-between period- those never lasted very long.

Molly heard the rustle of fabric next to her and when she looked she saw Sherlock fidgeting again. He'd been doing that most of the drive, shifting and moving, apparently never able to get comfortable. She looked at him for a while- he was staring out the window, not actually looking at anything, she knew- before turning her attention back to the road.

She'd long moved on from barely believing what she had just done for him. Helping him fake his death, she was sure that she had broken some law along the way- eventually, she'd figured it'd be best not to look into it. And after that, he obviously needed somewhere to stay (three guesses as to who he ended up going to for that).

This apparently would be the last thing he would ask of her, until of course he left for his henchmen-hunt.

Somehow, Sherlock had managed to find out that today John and Mrs. Hudson would be visiting his empty grave. How he'd managed to find that out, Molly didn't know- and it was another thing she'd figured would be best not to look into. In response to her inquiries as to why he'd felt the need to be there, he just said that he wanted to make sure John and Mrs. Hudson didn't suspect anything. Molly didn't believe this for a second, but didn't say anything about it.

Arriving at the cemetery, Sherlock wasted no time making his way, carefully, to where he could see them. Molly walked in another direction, figuring she might as well make a visit of her own. She was there quicker than she expected, and she was surprised to find as she arrived that she had been chewing relentlessly on her lip.

For a while, she avoided looking at the headstone in front of her, instead trying to distract herself with anything else around her- that crow that refused to shut up, a nearby tree that was probably dying, things left at other gravestones by friends and relatives paying their respects. Eventually, she did look, but not before sitting down on the grass and curling up against the headstone like she'd done so many times all those years ago.

And she said, in a small voice, "Hi Dad."

She'd loved her dad immensely, so very much. And just as she'd said, he was a lovely person. Always making others laugh, always smiling. At least, when she'd seen him...

Sometimes, Sherlock really reminded her of him. Maybe it was the way he tended to tower over people, or how he would flit around with that fountain of energy (normally), or how he could be so animated at times, but being around Sherlock made Molly feel sort of as though she had her dad back. She might've even felt secure and safe around him, if he didn't make her feel like such an idiot at times. She wondered if that was why she clung to him like she did.

The irony of one particular thing, though, wasn't lost on her. Another thing that Sherlock and her dad had in common. Except that, very much unlike Sherlock, her dad _hadn't_ faked his suicide.

She'd thought she'd put all of this aside, buried this like the coffin six feet below her. It was only then that she realized just how very much she hadn't.

Maybe that's why she had so readily helped Sherlock.

She gave herself a few more minutes, before drying her eyes and picking herself off of the floor, resigning herself to find Sherlock again.

And find him she did. He stood a distance away from his own grave, his eyes lingering on John's retreating form- he was trying to keep a military stance, but he couldn't hide a slight limp. Molly, now looking at Sherlock's face, thought he looked... numb.

He finally turned his eyes to Molly, and his face never lost impassive mask he now hid behind. He turned away from the direction of the empty grave and made to walk back to Molly's car.

But Molly didn't move. And her head was still turned toward the direction John had left.

"I really wish you'd tell him," she said quietly.

She'd expected Sherlock to keep walking and pretend he hadn't heard her, but instead, he stopped short, almost a freeze.

"I can't," was what he said in a voice almost as quiet as Molly's. That voice seemed so uncharacteristic of him, that it threw Molly almost as off-guard as when he'd told her that he thought he was going to die.

"Why?" she asked. And it came out angrily, though she wasn't quite sure why this made her feel that way.

"Because I know John."

Molly didn't understand. There was a pause, before Sherlock continued.

"The spider is dead, but the web remains. I have to take down what still lingers of Moriarty's network. This I have to do in any case," he turned back to Molly, "I know John and I know how he would insist, strongly and intently, that he come with me. I make no delusion, it is going to be _very _dangerous work, something could happen to him. Hell," he laughed bitterly, "something could happen to _me_. I might very well end up buried over there _anyway._"

And then Molly understood.

"You know yourself, too," she said, and now it was Sherlock's turn to be confused, for once, "It's why you're so insistent you leave as soon as possible, because you know yourself. You know that if you stayed too long, you would end up telling him anyway. You would give in to his insistence, you would let him come along. You would _want _him to come along."

Sherlock stared at her.

"This was goodbye, wasn't it? You wanted to see him- and your landlady, as well, I'm sure- just one more time."

"And why would I do that?" he asked.

"Because you love him," she said simply.

Sherlock responded with almost a sigh in his voice, "Something that John feels the need to emphasize at every opportune moment, we aren't a couple."

"So? It doesn't have to be a formal relationship with dating, kissing, and sex to be love. You can do those things and not really love someone, you can love someone deeply without all those things."

There was a pause, in which Molly thought Sherlock looked like he was thinking about something.

"Well, how about this? If.." Molly hesitated, debating momentarily whether or not to actually ask this before she continued again, "If you didn't have my help, if you had no plan, and the fall truly meant your death, would you have jumped?"

Had Molly not understood just how serious the question was, she might have taken some amusement in Sherlock's face. The question took him by surprise, and she could practically see him trying to work his mind around the problem. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, before slowly closing it again, losing the words.

And then, mutely, he nodded.

Similarly, Molly didn't say anything either, instead nodding back in acknowledgment, and turned to walk back to her car, Sherlock soon following.

"Look after him, won't you?" He said when they were in the car.

"I'll make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

The next day, when Molly woke up, Sherlock was completely gone. Looking, she found there wasn't a trace left of him with the singular exception of an unsigned sticky-note on her kitchen table bearing two neatly written words:

_Thank you_

It wasn't long until Molly found herself dialing John's number and waiting for him to pick up. She liked John. In the occasion when she'd finally learned his name, she'd gotten the opportunity to get to know him properly and found he was a very good man.

She knew how John must feel right now. She knew what it felt to lose someone you loved, and like this. Sherlock faked his suicide, Molly knows that, but John doesn't. For him, it felt completely real.

It was beginning to feel real again for Molly, too.

"Hi, John? I was- well, I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee or something... if you want someone to talk to."


End file.
